closet. You have to store it in the refrigerator. That stuff is garbage now.”
It was not garbage to Mattu. He did not surrender his plate.
“So here's the deal,” said Jared, taking control of the plate. “We don't tell Mom you're hoarding rotting food in the closet. She'd go nuts that we might get rats or bugs.”
“I have not noticed rats or bugs,” admitted Mattu. “But of course they are here, eating their share.”
“Don't say that around Mom!” yelled Jared. “I'm throwing this away, Mattu. You get hungry, you raid the refrigerator like a normal person.”
The next day was unseasonably warm. Mom took everybody into the village to have post office lessons, ATM lessons, library lessons and coffee shop lessons.
“Not me,” said Jared. Throwing away rotted dinner had filled his whole charity slot. He was done with teaching refugees.
“I need you,” said his mother, and her voice shook.
Mom never needed anybody. She was the toughest person he knew, tougher than Dad. Then he thought, She doesn't have Dad right now.
Jared was suddenly afraid. Suddenly aware that Dad wasn't ever home anymore. The house was so busy and chaotic that Jared had barely noticed how his own father was missing. Mom was carrying the whole refugee thing.
Mom drove down into the village and parallel parked, an art Jared yearned to conquer. He decided to ask Dad about driving lessons—dropping hints about how they needed Dad at home.
Or maybe not. Because what if Dad had reached his limit? What if he just couldn't stand any more of Mopsy dancing andJared moaning and Mom volunteering and Brady Wall stealing and crowds of Africans in need? What if Dad stayed away?
When they wrapped up at the post office, Mopsy wanted to show off the ocean. Jared would have driven to the town beach, a few miles away, where there was soft sand and picnic tables. Instead, Mopsy led them down a narrow lane between the antiques shop and the real estate office. All around were marinas, shuttered for the winter, hundreds of boats sitting up on props, shrink-wrapped in brilliant blue plastic. Even to Jared's eye, it was eerie.
Sticking out into the bay was a man-made breakwater—huge rocks dumped to make a wall about a hundred yards long. The rocks were very uneven, and at some point the top of the wall had been cemented over so that people who wanted to fish or walk out and admire the view had a better chance of staying upright. But salt water and New England winters were not kind to cement. By midwinter, the cement had rotted through and the rocks were icy and dangerous.
“In summer I like to swim off the far end,” said Mopsy, trotting forward. “It's deep. Thirty or forty feet.”
Alake refused to get anywhere near the water, never mind walk out on the wall. Mattu stuck his hand in the water. He gasped. “How can you swim in something that cold?”
“You swim in summer,” said Jared. “It gets warmer.” Actually, the water never got warm, just less cold.
Halfway out, Mopsy took a fall. Jared heard her knee whack the stones. She gave the kind of whimper that meant she wanted to sob but was trying to be silent and brave. She limped back. Oneplus—the Amabos were never going to get anywhere near the water again. They galloped back to the car.
When Mom started the engine, Andre watched longingly. He would never drive. Probably in Africa he hadn't given that a thought, but in America, where you vaulted into and out of the car every five minutes, Andre must have been painfully aware of what he would never do.
“The Nelsons are going to donate their old Honda,” Mom announced. “Isn't that great? After you get your license, Celestine, you can drive yourself to work and pick the kids up at school and go to the mall on your own.”
“I don't want to drive!”
“Nonsense. The grocery store is miles away. Your motel is even farther. We've got volunteer drivers, but they can't keep it up forever.”
“No! I can't do it! I can't learn to
It was not garbage to Mattu. He did not surrender his plate.
“So here's the deal,” said Jared, taking control of the plate. “We don't tell Mom you're hoarding rotting food in the closet. She'd go nuts that we might get rats or bugs.”
“I have not noticed rats or bugs,” admitted Mattu. “But of course they are here, eating their share.”
“Don't say that around Mom!” yelled Jared. “I'm throwing this away, Mattu. You get hungry, you raid the refrigerator like a normal person.”
The next day was unseasonably warm. Mom took everybody into the village to have post office lessons, ATM lessons, library lessons and coffee shop lessons.
“Not me,” said Jared. Throwing away rotted dinner had filled his whole charity slot. He was done with teaching refugees.
“I need you,” said his mother, and her voice shook.
Mom never needed anybody. She was the toughest person he knew, tougher than Dad. Then he thought, She doesn't have Dad right now.
Jared was suddenly afraid. Suddenly aware that Dad wasn't ever home anymore. The house was so busy and chaotic that Jared had barely noticed how his own father was missing. Mom was carrying the whole refugee thing.
Mom drove down into the village and parallel parked, an art Jared yearned to conquer. He decided to ask Dad about driving lessons—dropping hints about how they needed Dad at home.
Or maybe not. Because what if Dad had reached his limit? What if he just couldn't stand any more of Mopsy dancing andJared moaning and Mom volunteering and Brady Wall stealing and crowds of Africans in need? What if Dad stayed away?
When they wrapped up at the post office, Mopsy wanted to show off the ocean. Jared would have driven to the town beach, a few miles away, where there was soft sand and picnic tables. Instead, Mopsy led them down a narrow lane between the antiques shop and the real estate office. All around were marinas, shuttered for the winter, hundreds of boats sitting up on props, shrink-wrapped in brilliant blue plastic. Even to Jared's eye, it was eerie.
Sticking out into the bay was a man-made breakwater—huge rocks dumped to make a wall about a hundred yards long. The rocks were very uneven, and at some point the top of the wall had been cemented over so that people who wanted to fish or walk out and admire the view had a better chance of staying upright. But salt water and New England winters were not kind to cement. By midwinter, the cement had rotted through and the rocks were icy and dangerous.
“In summer I like to swim off the far end,” said Mopsy, trotting forward. “It's deep. Thirty or forty feet.”
Alake refused to get anywhere near the water, never mind walk out on the wall. Mattu stuck his hand in the water. He gasped. “How can you swim in something that cold?”
“You swim in summer,” said Jared. “It gets warmer.” Actually, the water never got warm, just less cold.
Halfway out, Mopsy took a fall. Jared heard her knee whack the stones. She gave the kind of whimper that meant she wanted to sob but was trying to be silent and brave. She limped back. Oneplus—the Amabos were never going to get anywhere near the water again. They galloped back to the car.
When Mom started the engine, Andre watched longingly. He would never drive. Probably in Africa he hadn't given that a thought, but in America, where you vaulted into and out of the car every five minutes, Andre must have been painfully aware of what he would never do.
“The Nelsons are going to donate their old Honda,” Mom announced. “Isn't that great? After you get your license, Celestine, you can drive yourself to work and pick the kids up at school and go to the mall on your own.”
“I don't want to drive!”
“Nonsense. The grocery store is miles away. Your motel is even farther. We've got volunteer drivers, but they can't keep it up forever.”
“No! I can't do it! I can't learn to
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